


Wenceslas

by dragongirlG, velociraptorerin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Christmas, Dreamscapes, Dreamsharing, Embedded Images, Happy Ending, Homeless Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Podfic Welcome, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reunions, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-12-24 05:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21094190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG, https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptorerin/pseuds/velociraptorerin
Summary: Steve is a short, skinny Brooklynite with a very stable, predictable life, which he built after losing his memories in a traumatic accident six months ago. He works from home on a steady stream of art commissions, goes to weekly trivia nights with his superhero friends the Avengers, and tries not to get bothered by the constant feeling that something is not quite right.When Steve invites a homeless man with one arm to take shelter in his apartment during a December snowstorm, both of them enter a dreamscape that unravels the fabric of their memories and reveals the truth about their identities—and their relationship to each other.A wintertime fic featuring dream-sharing, identity porn, and Steve in the 21st century, inspired by the movieEternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mindand the musical compositionWenceslas Suiteby Bob Chilcott. Now complete!





	1. Cover Art: Wenceslas

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many people to thank for the creation of this work:
> 
>   * my incredible artist mcl4r3n, aka velociraptorerin, who created so many gorgeous pieces for this story and gave me cheerleading throughout the whole process;
>   * my wonderful beta, who's always willing to take time and read any excerpts I send;
>   * the community who introduced me to the _Wenceslas Suite_ and inspired me to write this story and learn the music;
>   * the CapBB mods, for being courteous, professional, and efficient;
>   * and last but not least, my fellow CapBB authors, who provided commiseration, cheerleading, and support.
> 
> This story is inspired by the 2004 movie _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ ([IMDB link](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338013/)) and the musical composition _Wenceslas Suite_ ([listen HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2DeZowRekQ&list=OLAK5uy_mUyZbPXzNRcWSSdC8Gz6CL1hMY370XmEE)).


	2. Wintertide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for body horror (Bucky's arm), panic attacks (Steve), and general mental confusion (for Bucky).

_ Pity any poor soul out in the cold _  
_ Frost for a blanket, ice in their bones _  
_ Pity for the wretch who sleeps outside _ _  
By themselves at winter tide._

_ [Wenceslas: I. Wintertide, Bob Chilcott](https://youtu.be/b2DeZowRekQ) _

**1940s**

It's snowing outside.

Steve shivers and ducks into the bedroom, grabbing the thick duvet and wrapping it around himself before settling down in the rickety rocking chair. He's expecting someone important. He can't remember who, which he finds a little strange, but he knows the person will be home soon. 

Steve idly looks around the cramped apartment. There's the bathtub that doubles as the kitchen counter, wooden board laid neatly across; the little stove nearby with a pot of water, already heated and lidded to keep the steam in; two wooden chairs and a matching table, atop of which lie Steve's sketchbook and pencils. A potted plant sits on the narrow windowsill, catching the last dying rays of winter sunlight from the window. 

Steve fixes his eyes on the door and waits, his breath whistling with each slow inhale.

It's getting dark by the time the knock comes. Steve almost misses it due to the howling of the wind. 

"Steve?" a man's voice calls.

Steve quickly crosses the room, heedless of the duvet dragging on the floor. He undoes the bolt and opens the door, a smile spreading across his face as he takes in the man in front of him. He has short brown hair swept across his forehead in a side part, blue eyes the color of the ocean, a square jaw, and a cleft chin. Steve's heart fills with warmth, and a name falls out of his mouth before he can think. "Bucky."

Bucky smiles shyly, fiddling with some of the pouches on his belt. His bulky brown pants are tucked into dark brown leather boots. A silver pendant peeks out from underneath his navy-blue pea coat. His cheeks are flushed with cold, and his hair is damp. He must have lost his hat to the wind. 

"Can I come in?" Bucky asks, soft and hesitant. 

"Of course," says Steve, stepping back. 

Bucky shuts the door behind him, his jaw slack with wonder as he looks around. "It's…it's warm," he says. "And you're…" He reaches out with his left hand, then slowly holds it up in front of his face, eyes widening as he touches each finger to his palm. 

"What is it?" asks Steve. 

Bucky blinks and shakes his head. "Nothing. Just..." He takes a step closer, then slowly entwines his fingers with Steve's. 

Steve jumps, the duvet on his shoulders sliding to the floor. "Hell, Buck, you're freezing! How long were you out there?"

"I fell," says Bucky, his gaze distant. "I couldn't move. Not for a long time."

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, ice trickling down his spine. "What happened?"

Bucky swallows hard. "I—I couldn't reach him."

"Reach who?"

“You,” Bucky says softly, and he turns his gaze back to Steve, his eyes wide and confused. 

“I’m here, Buck,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s hand. 

Bucky shakes his head and worries his lip, sweat dotting his forehead. “I…I don't understand. I'm sorry."

Steve's heart aches. "Don't worry, pal. We'll get it sorted out later. You want a bath? I got the water all heated on the stove."

Bucky's eyes drift toward the bathtub, his brow furrowing as he takes in the wooden plank. He looks back at Steve, uncertain. 

Steve guides him toward the tub. "Here. You get the lid, I’ll get the water.”

Bucky does as told, stepping back and watching warily as Steve dumps the whole pot of water into the basin. “There we go,” says Steve with a satisfied smile. Then, suddenly, his knees give out from under him, his body wracked with a sudden bout of cold despite the steam rising from the tub.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, panicked. “What is it?”

Steve wheezes. _ Asthma_? he thinks, and he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. The cold always makes it flare up bad in the winter. “I’m fine,” he tries to say, but the words don’t make it out of his mouth. “B-Buck—” Steve gasps, clutching his throat, and his vision whites out: the world around him distorts, and he can see nothing but a thick sheet of ice, closing in on him and trapping him—

“Steve,” says Bucky, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and gently rubbing his chest. “It’s okay, just breathe with me.”

Steve focuses on the sound of Bucky’s voice, the soothing motions of his hand. “Sorry,” says Steve, as his senses filter back in, and his eyes fill with sudden, inexplicable tears. “Bucky, I’m sorry.”

Bucky shushes him. “Nothing to be sorry for, Steve,” he says, stroking the hair at the back of Steve’s neck. 

Steve sighs and lets himself lean into the touch, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord. He rouses himself reluctantly and says, “You’d better get in before the water gets cold.” 

Bucky hums, resting his cheek on the top of Steve’s head. “In a minute.”

A sound like a gunshot shatters the peaceful atmosphere. Steve starts and looks around wildly, his heart pounding in his ears. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” asks Bucky, bewildered. 

Steve frowns. The wind has stopped howling, and an oppressive silence is pervading the room. Steve clears his throat to try to stave it off. “Must’ve just been a tree branch falling,” he says.

“C’mon,” says Bucky, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulders and helping him stand. “Let’s get washed up and then go to bed.”

“You ought to go first, you’ve been out in the storm,” says Steve, though he’s loath to leave Bucky’s side. 

Bucky frowns and shakes his head. “We’ll do it together,” he says. 

Steve blushes, and Bucky huffs even as he blushes back. “Won’t be anything new for either of us,” he mutters, “and besides, a bath’s no good if it’s cold and dirty.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, and then he halts. There’s a dark stain on the sleeve of Bucky’s coat, spreading down from his left forearm to his wrist. Steve leans forward, peering, and bites down hard on a scream as he notes the blood trickling down Bucky’s fingertips onto the ground. “Buck,” he breathes. “Your arm—”

Bucky’s face drains of color, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trembling and terrified. “No. No no no—don’t look at it, Steve, don’t look at it, it’s not real—”

Steve blinks hard, once, twice. 

Bucky’s arm is back to normal. 

Steve takes Bucky’s hand and gently uncurls Bucky’s fingers, one by one, from the fist they’d been curled into. “Bath,” Steve says firmly. “The cold’s getting to both of us.”

They don’t linger long in the lukewarm water. Steve washes quickly, then spends the rest of the time studying the planes and angles of Bucky's face, which soften as Bucky washes away the dirt and grit of the day. When he's finished, Steve hands him the towel he’d set next to the tub, then grabs one for himself and nods. They rise together, keeping their eyes above the waist as step out of the tub and wander into the bedroom.

Bucky opens their shared dresser and tosses fresh underwear and warm winter sleepclothes at Steve. Steve puts them on, then grabs the duvet from the floor and shakes it out onto the bed, nudging Bucky playfully when Bucky tries to get under it halfway through the process. 

Bucky grins and sprawls on the mattress, yawning loudly as Steve huffs and finishes straightening the duvet. “Jerk,” says Steve fondly, turning off the light and crawling under the covers. He smiles as Bucky snuffles and curls an arm around Steve’s waist, his breath soft and warm against Steve’s neck. 

“I miss you, Steve,” Bucky says, his words slurring, and he shivers violently. “Miss you...like this.”

“What do you mean?” Steve whispers. He rubs his hand along Bucky’s forearm, which feels like ice all of a sudden. 

Bucky makes a pained noise, and Steve stops. Bucky whines. “Don’t st-stop, Steve.”

Steve gently strokes up and down Bucky’s arm. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, shuddering. “Before. I mean. Like this. You were...safe. Back home…”

“We are home, Buck,” says Steve, worried. He ignores the fact that half an hour ago he wasn’t exactly sure where he was or who he was waiting for. Only the present moment matters. 

Bucky makes a questioning noise. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. 

“Don’t go,” says Bucky.

“I won’t, Buck,” says Steve. He turns his head slightly and meets Bucky’s scared, anxious gaze. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He strokes Bucky’s arm again, fighting a shiver. “C’mon, close your eyes. We should get some rest.”

“Rest,” Bucky sighs, and he exhales hard, his body going lax against Steve’s. 

“Buck?” whispers Steve into the heavy silence. 

Bucky doesn’t answer. Steve swallows hard and closes his eyes, Bucky’s arm a cold, heavy weight against his chest as sleep pulls him under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think is happening here? There are clues throughout the chapter. ;-) We'd love to know what you think!


	3. Who can that be?

_Who can that be? _  
_ A man in the snow, with nowhere to go_  
_ Can you see?_  
_ I think I know_  
_ If I might say so  
He’s familiar to me_

_ [Wenceslas: II. Who can that be?, Bob Chilcott](youtube.com/watch?v=uZKi9h_qzvk) _

**Dec 24, 2014**

The snow whips at Steve’s face as he steps out of the art supplies store and traverses the streets of Brooklyn, holding his messenger bag steadily against him with gloved fingers. The slush on the sidewalk is slowly soaking his socks, and he grimaces. His boots must have some small holes in them. Tony’s sure to rag on him once he finds out, and then Natasha will drag Steve out to go shopping for some exorbitantly priced replacements, and Clint will helpfully follow after them like a bodyguard. Thor might join, too, if he’s in town. 

It’s—sweet, the way his friends treat him, and he appreciates their company, but Steve can’t help but feel like he’s not quite fitting into place. But then again, Steve always feels that way—always has, as far back as he can remember, which is to say—not a lot.

Steve had woken up in a private hospital six months ago, surrounded by his friends but barely even knowing his own name. Bruce, or Dr. Banner, had explained that Steve had been in a car accident and had received a traumatic brain injury, and that he was experiencing amnesia as a result. His friends had promised to take care of him and give him everything he needed to recover. Steve had been skeptical at first, but his gut had told him he could trust them, and so he had done so.

Steve’s friends had filled Steve in with the details of his life as he slowly recovered. Bit by bit, the picture emerged. Steve’s father Joseph had died during military service before Steve was born. Steve was raised in a single-parent household by his mother, Sarah Rogers. After Sarah died of metastatic lung cancer when Steve was eighteen years old, Steve had scraped by on odd jobs with his high school degree while selling his artwork on the side.

Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, had given him his big break; she’d spotted one of his paintings at a local exhibition and had commissioned him for more, spreading the word to her vast network of donors and business partners. Eventually, a steady stream of business formed, and it has yet to dry up. Steve’s main source of income is graphic design—logos, branding, and the occasional book cover—but he also gets regular requests from the VA for his paintings, which apparently strike a chord with the veterans who visit their offices. 

Steve isn’t dumb. He knows that his friends are the superheroes he sees on television, saving various places from extraterrestrial, supernatural, or otherwise extraordinary entities. It can’t be coincidence that his friends all work on the same team as “security consultants” with Bruce serving as their “on-call doctor.” He’s seen the footage, and Tony, of course, had admitted he was Iron Man live on national television. It wasn’t hard to look up Bruce’s other identity as the Hulk, either, especially after looking through the S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA files that Natasha had dumped online. It took Steve mere seconds to put the rest of the pieces together. 

The only Avenger that Steve has never met is the original Captain America, who woke up in 2012 after being a block of ice for decades. Steve would almost think that_ he’s _ Captain America, except he doesn’t have the physique and never has. He’s all of 5’4” and made of lean, wiry muscle, and he’s got nearsightedness with astigmatism to boot. Fortunately, he grew out of his childhood asthma and indigestion issues, which frequently stopped him from doing any physical activity at all, but there was no way that even a late growth spurt could have given him the body of an Adonis. 

He does find it funny that he and Captain America have almost the same exact name. Steve’s full name is Stephen Roger Grant, and Captain America’s was Steven Grant Rogers—up until he passed along his shield to a man named Sam Wilson, formerly known as the Falcon. 

“You told us your parents were Cap fans,” said Clint blithely when Steve asked about the similarity. 

“Yeah,” said Tony, “With a last name like Grant, how could they resist honoring their favorite hero?”

Natasha snorted.

“Where _ is _Captain America, anyway?” asked Steve. “It seems like he disappeared after the S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA reveal.”

Tony made a choked noise. “Uh, Wilson’s doing fine, and _ Rogers _is retired. Off the grid now—living up in…”

“We’re not really sure where he is,” Natasha cut in smoothly. 

Clint shrugs. “Last I heard, he was somewhere in—Alaska? Heard he grew a thick beard and started working on a fishing boat.”

Steve touched the smooth skin of his own jaw thoughtfully. His stubble tended to come in patchy, and he could barely imagine himself with a beard. 

Steve is so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses the sounds of a nearby alleyway scuffle. There’s a low groan about two feet ahead from the alley on the right, and shortly afterward two tall, muscular men in black leather jackets emerge, laughing raucously and jostling each other with high-fives. They turn in the opposite direction of Steve and strut away. 

Steve resists the urge to call out after them. He’s learned enough about fighting from the Avengers to do some damage, but two-against-one still isn’t great odds, especially if he’s trying to go up against people twice his size. Besides, it’s more important to check on whoever’s hurt. 

Steve digs his miniature flashlight out of his pocket and switches it on, shining it into the alley. A ragged looking man with long brown hair, a red Henley, and worn jeans is lying on his side, clutching his bleeding nose with his right hand. He looks up at Steve with wide eyes and awkwardly tries to scoot backward, but he just ends up scraping his elbow against the pavement. 

“Hey, hey, easy,” says Steve. He raises his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.” He crouches down slowly, his bag heavy against his hip. “Can I help you sit up?” 

The man’s eyes flicker around the alley before falling back onto Steve. Steve stays perfectly still as the man scrutinizes him from head to toe. When the man nods, Steve takes a few steps forward, ignoring the stench of wet garbage and body odor. The slush soaks into his jeans as he braces his weight on his knees and grasps the man’s shoulders. He props him up gently against the brick wall. The man ducks his face down, hiding it underneath a greasy curtain of long brown hair, as he takes a shuddering breath. 

It takes Steve thirty seconds of dumb staring to realize that the man’s missing his left arm. Then Steve’s mind goes back to the group of men, and fury flares in his chest. 

“Those bastards,” Steve mutters. 

The man tenses. His eyes dart upward through his hair.

Steve shakes his head, forcing himself to relax. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. I just wish I’d paid closer attention to the men who did this to you. Do you want me to take you to the police station to report it…?” Steve’s voice trails off as he notices the man flinch and curl into a miserable ball against the wall. He wonders vaguely if the guy is a veteran, and another spike of anger rises up at the lack of resources the country provides. He forces it down and says, “Okay. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The man’s eyes dart to the dumpster. “My bag,” he croaks, his teeth chattering. “In there_. Pl-please._” The man’s plea ends in a coughing fit. 

Steve nods. “I’ll get it for you,” he says softly. He stands, adjusting his own bag on his shoulder—there are things in there he can’t afford to lose if this is a trap—and then he flips open the top of the dumpster. After a few flicks of his wrist, his flashlight illuminates a worn black backpack with frayed straps, slumped in the left front corner of the dumpster. Steve rises to his toes slightly and plucks it out, brushing off stray garbage, and kneels to hand it to the man. 

The man curls his arm around it protectively. “Th-thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Steve turns to close the dumpster, making sure that the lid doesn’t slam and scare the man. When he turns around, the man is trying to stand up, using his left shoulder stump for support as his right hand scrabbles for purchase on the wall. His bag is hitched over his right shoulder and seems to be knocking him off balance. 

“Whoa, hey.” Steve holds out his hands again, and the man freezes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve repeats. “Just wanted to help you stand up.”

The man frowns and pulls himself upright with a grunt, swaying a little with his back to the wall. He’s visibly shivering and looks ready to collapse at any moment. “I’m f-fine.”

Steve frowns at him. “You look injured. I can call an ambulance—”

The man flinches violently. “N-no. No, please. No h-hospitals.”

“Okay,” says Steve quietly. “Okay, I’m sorry. Do you have a place to stay tonight? The snow’s supposed to get worse.”

“I’m fine,” the man insists. His grip is tight around the backpack, and he glances nervously over Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve glances over his own shoulder and realizes he’s blocking the only exit. He feels like an idiot. “Sorry.” He turns and takes a few steps back against the wall. “I didn’t mean to block you in.” 

The man stares at him silently, a little line between his brows. 

“Um.” Steve rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I only live a couple blocks from here. Do you want to come up for a little bit? I can make you some soup to help you warm up, and you can use my bathroom to clean up if you’d like.” He almost tells the man that he can stay overnight, but decides that that might give the man the wrong idea. 

The line between the man’s brow deepens. “I could hurt you.”

Steve sucks in a breath, forcing his body to relax on the exhale. “You could,” he agrees. “But I’m trusting you not to do that.” 

“What do you want from me?” 

Steve frowns. “What do you mean? I don’t want anything.”

“Why,” says the man, and frustration flashes across his face. “Why are you helping me?”

A wave of sadness washes over Steve. “Because nobody should be left out in the snow. Because you—you’re a human being, and you deserve a hot meal and a warm shelter no matter what society tells you.”

The man studies Steve’s face. “You...you don’t know me,” he says slowly, and he sounds bewildered. “Do you?”

Steve shakes his head. He wonders if he met this man before his accident. “I don’t think so. Sorry.” He holds out his hand and clears his throat. “I’m Steve.”

The man shifts, worrying his lip. “You’re Steve?” he says, sounding uncertain.

Steve nods. “That’s my name.” When the man doesn’t say anything, Steve asks, ”What’s yours?”

The man swallows and says nervously, “Bucky.” 

“Bucky,” says Steve, warmth blossoming in his chest. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Bucky gives him a small, tentative smile. 

“Let’s get out of the cold,” says Steve. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either,” says Bucky, a shadow passing across his face. 

Steve smiles and turns to lead the way to his apartment with Bucky following behind him. 


	4. Forth, they went

_We’ll take a blanket soft and warm_   
_ To wrap him up against the storm…_   
_ We’ll take him warmth and show we care  
St. Stephen’s Night shall last all year. _

_ [Wenceslas: III. Forth, they went, Bob Chilcott](https://youtu.be/TzsPLzidMZE) _

**December 24, 2014**

Bucky twitches nervously when he and Steve enter the brownstone, clutching his bag tightly to his shoulder and glancing around warily. 

Steve gives him an encouraging smile. “I’m on the third floor. There’s no elevator, so we’ll be taking the stairs. Follow me.”

They trudge their way up the stairs, a heavy, thick silence between them. The soles of the Bucky’s black boots are coming unglued, and they slap awkwardly against the concrete, _ slip-slap, slip-slap, _ loud in the stillness of the night. When Steve glances behind his shoulder, Bucky’s gaze skitters from the back of Steve’s head away toward the floor. 

Steve clears his throat and keeps his eyes forward until they reach his little corner apartment, #310. He fumbles with his keys as he retrieves them from his pocket, dropping them in the hallway with a loud clang. “Sorry,” he winces as Bucky jumps back in alarm. He hopes he didn’t disturb his neighbors—particularly Kate, a tall blonde who works as a nurse and might still be sleeping before her night shift.

Steve lets Bucky in first, then quietly shuts the door. “Let me show you the bathroom,” says Steve, leading Bucky down the hall. He halts and blushes in embarrassment when he spots the pile of discarded clothes next to the tub. “Sorry, excuse me. Give me a moment to clean up.”

Bucky takes a startled step back as Steve dumps the clothes into the hallway. Steve ducks back into the bathroom and searches in his cabinet for a safety razor, a spare toothbrush, and his toothpaste, setting them on the little shelf above the sink along with his shaving cream. “It’s all yours,” he tells Bucky, gesturing toward the tub. “The temperature dials on the tub are marked H for hot and C for cold, and you can pull the lever to start the shower.”

Bucky moves past him slowly, limping a little.

“Do you have any clothes in your bag that you want to wash? I can stick them in the laundry for you.”

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Okay.”

Bucky stares at him for another moment before shutting the door. 

Steve breathes out a sigh. He dumps his dirty clothes into the laundry basket in his closet, removes his wet socks and shoes, and listens to the sounds of the shower for a moment. Then he digs in his drawers and his closet for a clean t-shirt, a pair of thick wool hiking socks, sweatpants, a pair of boxers, and an oversized sweater. He folds them into a neat stack and sets them outside the bathroom door. Bucky’s certainly taller and wider than him, so the clothes won’t fit exactly right, but at least they’ll be clean and dry. 

Steve wonders briefly if this is the best idea. He’s not exactly equipped to deal with a possibly concussed, definitely injured, probably traumatized amputee. Then he frowns at himself. He _is _equipped to act like a decent human being, and he can defend himself if needed. He has a huge advantage, too; he hasn’t been out on the streets for days. 

He yawns as he pads over to the kitchen, heating a can of chicken soup on the stove. When the bathroom door opens, Steve calls, “The clothes are for you if you want them.” 

There’s a pause, and then the bathroom door clicks shut again. 

Bucky emerges just as the soup starts to simmer. “Perfect timing,” says Steve. He ladles the soup into two bowls and sets them on the counter, then does a double take. Underneath all the grime is a very attractive man, with gorgeous blue-grey eyes, smooth pale skin, a sharp jawline with a cleft chin. The face is oddly familiar in a way Steve can’t pinpoint. Bucky’s damp hair is chestnut brown and reaches down to his chin, curling a little around his ears. Steve’s sweater stretches across Bucky’s chest, highlighting a solidly built frame. 

“Um,” says Steve, his mouth dry. “Hi.”

Bucky’s eyes find the floor again. “Hi,” he says, his voice soft, his fingers clenching around his backpack strap. 

“Hey, take a seat,” says Steve. “I’ve made soup for the both of us. I can make something else too if you’re still hungry afterward.” 

Bucky hesitantly perches on one of the bar stools, setting the backpack down on the ground. He waits until Steve starts eating before he lifts his own spoon with a trembling hand. He ends up spilling a little soup on the counter as he brings it to his mouth, and his cheeks redden as he sends an embarrassed glance toward Steve. “S-sorry,” he says. His breathing quickens. “I—I made a mess.”

“It’s all right,” says Steve. He gently pushes a napkin across the table. “I don’t mind. Is there an easier way for you to eat the soup?”

Bucky hastily wipes up the soup and twists the spoon in his hand nervously. He stays silent for over a minute. Finally, he says in a cracked voice, “Bread helps. It...soaks the soup. I can pick it up and dip it…” He trails off, his face flushing. “Please.” 

“Of course,” says Steve. He cracks a small grin. “You’re in luck. I just splurged on a baguette today.” He turns and retrieves the fresh loaf, pausing to inhale the delicious scent before slicing up half the loaf. He sets the bread on a plate and pushes it across the counter toward Bucky. “There you go.”

Bucky looks surprised. “Thank you.” He hesitantly reaches for a slice and dips it into the soup, shoving it in his mouth like he’s afraid Steve will take it away. Steve’s heart breaks a little at the sight, but he says nothing as he calmly follows suit. 

Bucky slows down as he reaches the bottom of the bowl, scraping the last of the soup up with a scrap of bread. 

“Would you like some more?” asks Steve.

Bucky’s eyes dart to the stove. Hunger flashes plainly across his face.

“Here,” says Steve. He takes Bucky’s bowl and refills it with soup, then places it in front of Bucky. “Have more bread, too. You can finish the plate. I’m full.”

Bucky glances at Steve warily and reaches for another slice. Steve clears his throat and turns away to give him some privacy, slowly wiping down the countertops and the sink even though they’re already clean. Then he fills a glass of water and sips it, pretending to examine the cabinets while keeping Bucky in his peripheral vision.

“I—I’ve finished,” Bucky says softly. 

Steve turns to him with a warm smile. “Would you like anything else to eat?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Thank you. It was good. Warm.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Bucky rises suddenly with a panicked look, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “It’s late. I—I should go.”

“Wait,” says Steve, and Bucky freezes. “Do you have any place to stay tonight? The snow’s only going to get worse, and I”—Steve falters—“I don’t think you should go back out there. You could stay here. If you want.”

Bucky’s gaze skitters nervously around the apartment, eyes lingering on the haphazard sketchbooks and precariously balanced tablet on the coffee table, the half-finished easels piled in the corner. A blush crawls its way up Steve’s cheeks. “I mean, you don’t have to,” Steve rambles. “It’s just. You can. I’ve got extra sheets and blankets, and I could make up the couch for you? It's a pull-out so it's pretty much like sleeping in a real bed.”

Bucky frowns at the floor for a long moment, clutching the strap of his backpack so tightly that Steve can see the whites of his knuckles. Steve can’t figure out where to put his own eyes, so he settles for looking at the window instead, keeping Bucky in his periphery. The snow and the late hour lull his mind into a momentary trance, and he startles a little when Bucky finally clears his throat. 

“The couch cushions,” Bucky says, his voice barely audible. “We used to put them on the floor and pile them up when we were kids.”

Steve blinks. He’s not sure who Bucky’s referring to, but it doesn’t matter. “Is that what you want to do?” asks Steve. “Sleep on the floor?”

Bucky falters, frowning in confusion. 

“Or the couch,” says Steve quickly. “Or I mean—you can take my bed, too, and I can sleep on the couch. Whatever’s most comfortable.”

Bucky turns and examines around the apartment again, slow and deliberate this time. “I’ll stay on the couch,” he says slowly, “but I get nightmares. And I panic. So it, it’s better if you move anything valuable somewhere that I can’t reach. You’d better lock the door to your room, too. So I can’t get in and hurt you by accident.”

Steve almost argues that he can take care of himself. It feels like a reflexive response more than a relevant one, strangely, and it takes a moment for him to come up with an actual sensible reply. “It’ll be easier if you take the bedroom instead of moving everything out of here in the middle of the night,” he says. It’s true. The only valuable things in the bedroom are his documents, which are locked in a fireproof safe hidden at the back of his closet. Everything else he can replace. Plus, he’s sure his downstairs neighbors will appreciate not having to hear him lugging a bunch of items around.

Bucky frowns. “The couch isn’t good for your back.”

Steve blinks, bewildered. “I think my back can handle one night on the couch, pal. The pull-out portion is essentially a mattress. It's not that lumpy.”

Bucky huffs.

“Come on, let’s get you settled,” says Steve. “If we keep arguing, we’re not going to get to sleep before the sun rises.”

Bucky huffs a breath but follows Steve to the linen closet, carrying a bundle of fresh sheets and blankets into the bedroom at Steve’s direction. Steve’s space heater is still on, and the room is toasty warm. 

“I can make up the bed,” says Bucky as he cautiously sets his bag within easy reach. “Are you sure about this? It’s cold in your living room, and cold is bad for your lungs. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m sure,” says Steve. “I’ve got an extra space heater and a bunch more spare blankets. I grew out of asthma attacks years ago. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky still looks doubtful, but he nods and reaches for the door. “Good night,” he says. “Thank you, Steve.”

“Good night, Bucky.”

Steve listens to the lock click in the door, then grabs another set of linens and blankets to make up the couch. He also digs out his extra space heater, recently gifted to him by Clint, letting it warm up the room while he runs a hot bath in the bathroom. 

Exhaustion seeps into Steve’s bones as he sinks into the tub and recalls the events of the day. It had started off pretty normal: groceries and laundry in the morning, followed by lunch and a mug of tea at his favorite shop while he planned his work week. He has three commissions: two digital covers for fantasy and science fiction magazines, and a vintage print poster of an old ad from the 1940’s. He’s looking forward to the last one the most, and it’s the reason he spent hours at the art supply store, wandering around and wishing he made enough money to buy everything in it. And then it’d started snowing, and he’d found Bucky—

The ring of his cell phone jerks him out of his stupor. Steve groans and lifts himself partway out of the tub, fumbling around with his discarded clothes on the floor. He finds his cell phone buried in the pocket of his jeans and swipes before he even reads the name on the screen. 

“Hello?”

“R—uh, Grant, where the hell are you? I’ve been texting you for an hour and a half. It’s Worldly Wisdom Wednesday and we needed your artsy fartsy skills like, fifteen minutes ago. Oh, also, it’s Christmas Eve so the prizes are worth three times as much as usual.”

Steve groans and leans his head back against the tile. “Tony. I’m so sorry, I completely forgot.” 

“You _ forgot_?” Tony sounds offended. Well, more offended than usual. “R—Grant, we are counting on you here to help us avenge our lost status as trivia royalty! Are you at home? Stop whatever you’re doing, put on pants, and get your ass to McPaddy’s right now. We’ll all turn old and grey waiting for you if you use the metro but I can send Happy over with the car—Romanoff, why are you staring at me like that—hey!—get away!—that’s—stop—” Muted _ thunks _ sound through the speaker for a second, and then—

“Steve,” says Natasha. “What happened to you?” 

“Uh,” Steve says. “Nothing.”

There’s a pause. “Where are you?”

“I’m at home.” 

“And why are you at home instead of with us?”

“Um.” Steve rubs his forehead. “I lost track of time in the art store. New commission, you know, print work…” 

An ominous five seconds follows. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Steve sighs. “I honestly didn’t mean to forget. It—something came up and at the end of the day I just wanted to relax at home. Tell Tony I’m sorry?”

“_Clint, you moron, the answer is Russia, not Ukraine_, _ I thought I taught you better than that,_” Natasha hisses. She clears her throat and says calmly, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Is he on a date?” Clint yells in the background.

“Are you on a date?” Natasha echoes, deadpan. 

“No,” Steve splutters. 

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I’ve gotta go, but we’re talking about this later.”

“Should I still try to come out or—”

“No, we’re already halfway through the first round.”

“Oh, okay. I’m really sorry, Natasha. Please let the team know.”

“It’s fine. We’ll talk later.” 

The dial tone is loud in Steve’s ears. Steve sighs and pulls the plug in the tub, rising from the now-lukewarm bathwater with a tired frown. He hates letting down his friends. They’re the only ones he has. 

Steve quickly brushes his teeth, then stumbles into the living room. An exhausted sigh escapes him as he stretches out on the couch. He falls asleep thinking of the man in his bedroom, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he’s met Bucky before.


	5. Interlude - Winter Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look at Bucky's thoughts.

_ [Wenceslas: IV. Interlude - Winter Dark, Bob Chilcott](https://youtu.be/nrLJHn_UMIQ) _

**December 24, 2014**

The room is warm and cozy, and Bucky hasn’t been so comfortable in years, but he still can’t sleep.

Steve doesn’t know him, and Bucky is— 

Bucky is confused, because isn’t Steve the one who insisted that Bucky was his friend?

Perhaps he got it wrong. After all, the Chair shot his memories to hell over and over again, and he’s only recently begun to piece them together. 

Here are the things Bucky knows: Before the ice, before HYDRA, he used to be a soldier in the U.S. Army, where he fought in World War II with Captain America as his commanding officer. Before _ that_, he used to live in Brooklyn, where he had a friend named Steve, who had scoliosis and asthma, never backed down from a fight, lent a hand to anyone and everyone who needed it—and looked exactly like the man who gave him shelter tonight. 

Bucky could’ve sworn that Steve and Captain America were one and the same, just like Bucky was Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, but—well, it’s entirely possible that he has it wrong. 

Bucky rubs his forehead and tries to think, jumping a little as the sound of running bathwater starts up in the adjacent room. He’d never had the chance to go to the Smithsonian exhibit on Captain America after the helicarriers fell. The remnants of HYDRA had found him first, dragged him back to base, and put him in the Chair for one last wipe before leaving him for dead. 

When he finally regained consciousness two days later, he’d been short one arm, and any memories he’d managed to scavenge had been scattered six ways to hell. All he’d had left to go on was a survival instinct that told him to stay as far away from HYDRA as possible, and one word from Captain America echoing in his head: _ “Bucky.” _

He’d claimed Bucky as his name and then left the base, disappearing into the shadows just as he’d been trained. He hadn’t dared to go back to any other HYDRA bases to get more information about Captain America and himself, nor had he risked entering a library or other publicly surveilled building where he might be spotted on any camera footage. It’d been much easier to remain inconspicuous on the streets, where his erratic behavior during flashbacks and his bedraggled appearance shielded him from any curious and pitying glances. 

Bucky hadn’t anticipated winter: how easily it’d remind him of the ice and the tube; how it’d freeze him—sometimes literally—in one spot as he tried not to expose any more of his skin to the elements. How vulnerable it’d make him, so much so that he couldn’t even defend himself from a couple of bored thugs. 

It was hard to believe that he’d ever been called the Winter Soldier—not that he’d ever asked for that title in the first place. 

A muffled musical jingle brings Bucky back to the present. Bucky strains his ears, making out the stuttered rhythm of a telephone conversation in the bathroom. Steve is apologizing for forgetting to meet someone tonight. Bucky can’t hear who’s on the other line.

Bucky scrubs his hand over his face and sighs. Even if this Steve isn’t _ his _ Steve, even if this Steve isn’t Captain America, he still shares a face with both of them. That’s the whole reason Bucky had followed him up tonight—because Steve had looked familiar, and Bucky had instinctively known he was trustworthy. Not only that, but Bucky had been convinced that Steve was _ his _Steve, even though that was impossible. 

It’s stupid now that he thinks about it—Steve would’ve been a complete stranger regardless of any history between them—but Bucky doesn’t regret it. He’s clean and dry with a hot meal in his belly, and one night in a safe and warm shelter will do wonders in helping him regain his strength. He hadn’t intended to stay, but he could hardly refuse the offer after Steve had been so kind. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, in and out, and examines Steve’s small bedroom carefully. 

The closet is across from the bed, and one of its doors is ajar. Hanging inside are jackets and coats for varying temperatures, and stacked on the shelves are a large collection of knitted sweaters, tight jeans, and soft short- and long-sleeved T-shirts. Bucky can see the edge of fireproof safe behind the closed closet door. He resists the urge to open it, as that would be a flagrant violation of Steve’s trust. 

Hanging next to the window is a framed diploma from Brooklyn High School of the Arts for Stephen Roger Grant, graduating class of 2004, which puts Steve at around 28 years old. Steve apparently did a Fine Arts major at the school, which explains all the art supplies that Bucky noted in the living room earlier. Bucky’s heart swells with faint and potentially misplaced pride—_ his _Steve had been an artist too, and a damn good one at that. 

Underneath the diploma is a small painted portrait of a blonde woman who bears an obvious resemblance to Steve. _ Sarah Rogers_, _ Steve’s mother, _ Bucky’s mind supplies, and he frowns as he looks back at Steve’s diploma. Perhaps it was _ Sarah Roger_, which would make Steve’s middle name her maiden name. Or perhaps she’s a different relation, or not related at all, though the latter idea seems plain wrong.

Posters of animated films from Studio Ghibli, Pixar, and Disney fill up the rest of the wall space. There’s also a bulletin board of various art exhibitions, some of which apparently featured Steve’s work. Bucky wonders if this Steve’s work bears any similarities to his Steve’s. 

The nightstand contains a tasteful lamp that diffuses warm light, an untouched book on American history with a glossy cover, a box of Kleenex, and a handful of loose change. Bucky quietly opens the top nightstand drawer, his cheeks burning when he spots condoms, lube, and an impressively sized dildo. He quickly shuts it and then rolls open the bottom drawer, which contains an old tablet with a cracked screen and a flip phone that looks like it’s been run over by a car. There’s also a brochure for Tuesday trivia night at a bar in Manhattan. Nothing else is of interest. 

Curiosity sated for the time being, Bucky tucks himself under the navy blue duvet. It’s soft and fluffy, but the mattress is firm against his back, and Bucky lets out a long sigh of relief as he closes his eyes. Sleep, for once, comes quickly. He hopes he won’t have any nightmares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: [Brooklyn High School of the Arts](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooklyn_High_School_of_the_Arts) is a real school! The first class graduated in 2004, which is extremely convenient timing as Steve in 2014, would’ve been about 29 if he’d actually been an 18 year old in that graduating class. Add some timey-wimey super-serum shenanigans and it works.
> 
> Please take some time to give some love to the gorgeous art!


	6. Sleeping in winter's arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: implied/referenced torture, implied/referenced medical procedures, body horror, mention of suicide, near-death experience, drowning, and canon-typical violence.

_When all’s said and done and icicles come_  
_ To freeze my tongue with winter’s song_  
_ I’ll be dead and gone, come to harm  
Sleeping in winter’s arms._

_ [Wenceslas: V. Sleeping in winter's arms, Bob Chilcott](https://youtu.be/sa2PlmwSZaA) _

**December 24, 2014-December 25, 2014**

Steve’s gazing into the sunset, soft pink and gold light dancing all around him, when he realizes with a gasp that he’s falling. 

Wind gusts across his face. He looks down and stares at the controls his hands are gripping. He’s flying a plane—no, he’s crashing a plane, nosediving it headfirst into the sea, and no matter how much he tries to frantically change course, the plane won’t move—

There’s a compass on the console and a woman calling out to him: _ “Steve? Steve?” _

He hits the ice with a thud, whacking his head hard against the controls. Steve gasps as freezing water rushes in through the cracked glass and submerges him. He tries to fend it off with his shield—_his shield?— _but it’s too little, too late. He’s going to die, and even though he’d anticipated this, he’s still faintly surprised. 

A sheet of ice drifts over him, blocking out the light, and Steve uses the last of his strength to lie down, closing his eyes as he pulls the shield over his chest. 

_ Crack. Crack. Crack. _

_ …”Steve?” _

Steve frowns and squints at the muted light above him. He spots a glint of metal, and his heart jumps to his throat, fear, anticipation, and sudden, overwhelming _ sadness _ rushing through his body. 

“Steve.” The man’s voice is muffled but familiar. “Just hang on a second longer. I’m almost through.”

_ Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack crack crack crack— _

The ice sheet shatters, raining shards down onto his sodden clothes, but none of them cut through to his skin. Something hard and cold reaches underneath his shoulders and heaves him upward, out of the water and into the blinding sunlight.

Steve coughs and sputters as he’s rolled onto his side, and his back gets pounded hard until he retches violently and vomits all the seawater he swallowed while drowning.

“You’re all right,” the man breathes, and he props Steve up against his arm. 

Steve blinks the water out of his eyes and squints against the sunlight, pulling off the hard helmet covering his face. Odd; he didn't remember that being there before. He blinks. “Bucky?” 

Bucky smiles tentatively, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Hey, Steve.”

“Wh...where are we?” asks Steve, staring at the blue-tinted ice around them. His eyes drift downward to the bright red, white, and blue shield he’s resting on his forearm. “Wait…” Steve breathes, and he stands up shakily. Bucky rises with him, supporting his weight, and that’s when Steve notices that they’re the same height —and the same width, too.

Steve blinks and looks down at his body, realization finally dawning as he examines his muscular frame and the patriotically colored uniform clinging to his skin.

“Why am I Captain America?” asks Steve. 

Bucky exhales slowly, his breath frosting in the air. “Because you...are?” He sounds uncertain. 

“But I’m not,” says Steve, frowning. “I never have been.”

“Oh, okay,” says Bucky with a sigh, rubbing his temples. His left hand is bright and blinding in the sunlight. It’s made of metal.

Steve’s jaw drops open. “Bucky, your arm,” he says.

Bucky’s eyes widen. He slowly raises his left hand to his face, wiggling the fingers, then turns to look at the rest of the arm, eyes lingering on the red star painted onto his metal bicep. “I’m dreaming,” he says, his voice quiet, and calm settles over him like a blanket. He cuts his gaze back to Steve, and a small smile crosses his face. “I’m dreaming about you. All right. It’s better than a nightmare.”

“If you’re dreaming,” says Steve, “does that mean I’m dreaming too?”

“Sure, pal,” says Bucky, and he scans the horizon thoughtfully. “Did you crash here?”

“Just did,” says Steve, and he turns to look at the wreckage behind him, wincing a little at the damage. “Think there’s anything important in there?”

Bucky gives him a puzzled frown. “Bombs, probably.”

“What?” Steve says in alarm. 

“But you already took care of those,” says Bucky with a shrug. “They never went off. Not in real life.”

Steve frowns. “You mean Captain America took care of them.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, raising his eyebrows. “That’s you for the time being.”

Steve instinctively hooks the shield to the holster strapped on his back and chest, then shakes out his limbs, marveling at his new size and strength. “I’m huge,” he says with wide eyes.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, you are.” He adjusts the straps on his black leather vest with a grimace. “I hate this uniform,” he mutters, bending and searching his many pants pockets. He huffs when he comes up empty. “Of course there's nothing—"

"Useful, Bucky, that’s all, and I can’t do that if I’m stuck here picking up scrap metal while you’re off learning how to fight at basic!” The words roll off Steve’s tongue before he can make sense of them, and he blinks in surprise. He’s in his normal body again, dressed in oversized 1940’s-era clothing and looking up at Bucky. Bucky’s much younger, cheeks fuller with baby fat and hair shorter and styled in the 1940s fashion. He’s wearing a neatly pressed World War II army uniform, his cap charmingly tilted, and he’s looking back at Steve with utter confusion.

“Steve?” he breathes.

“Still me, Bucky,” says Steve, examining his outfit. “What’s with the World War II getups?”

“I was a soldier,” says Bucky, peering at his uniform with interest, and he grins. “Look, I’ve still got my arm. My flesh one. Now I know for sure I’m dreaming.” He looks around, his eyes lighting up as he sees the crowd gathered around the stage. “Come on, let’s go and see the show. This is a good memory.”

“Memory?” Steve asks, but Bucky’s already disappearing into the crowd. Steve rushes to catch up with him, pushing past faceless, nameless bystanders until he spots Bucky’s broad shoulders. Steve sidles up next to him and follows Bucky’s awed gaze to the stage, where a mustached man in a suit is demonstrating a flying car. _ Howard Stark_, Steve recognizes, even though he’s never even seen a photograph of Tony’s father. The crowd gasps as the car drops with a thud. The sound rings inside Steve’s skull like a hammer, transmuting into an unbearable screech—

It’s night now, and he’s standing on a gravel road, staring at the smoking wreckage of a car that’s crashed against a wooden pole. Bucky’s standing next to the front passenger door, staring at his hands—one flesh, one metal—with horror.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, stepping toward him. He’s Captain America again, and he realizes with a start that he’s also freezing. Steve shivers and takes a step toward Bucky, shaking with the effort. “Bucky,” he calls, his voice echoing too loudly in the air. “Are you all right?”

Bucky looks up, tears trickling down his face. “Steve, I—I killed—he recognized me and I—” Bucky doubles over and moans like he’s been punched in the gut. “I could’ve—and she—I—”

Steve grits his teeth as he forces his uncooperative limbs forward. He reaches out a hand and drops it clumsily onto Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky,” says Steve, swallowing heavily. His heart aches at the pain written in every line of Bucky’s trembling body. “Listen to me. This is just a dream.”

“I know, but it happened,” Bucky whispers, his voice barely audible. “I killed Howard Stark and his wife. It happened just like this.”

Horror curls in Steve’s gut—and then transforms into a profound guilt, the origin of which he can’t explain. “I couldn’t,” he says, his teeth chattering. “St-stop you from doing it. I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face screws up with a pained grimace. “You were frozen,” he says, his eyes drifting to the star on Steve’s chest. “It’s better that they didn’t get you too.”

“Wh-who?” asks Steve, dread washing over him. 

“HYDRA,” Bucky whispers, and rage sparks within Steve just as the world falls away around them, shifting into a maelstrom of color and noise. Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him close, covering him with the Captain America shield as they buffet through a seemingly eternal progression of blurry images, blood-red and silver accompanied by the sounds of screams and gunshots and gurgling gasps. 

When Steve’s feet finally hit solid ground, he’s alone. 

Steve whirls around. He’s still wearing his Captain America uniform, but it’s got a slightly different design, and it feels fortified like body armore. H’s standing next to a jet of some sort, staring at a rusted set of metal doors embedded into a rocky outcropping. Ice and snow surround him, and an eerie silence permeates the air. 

“Bucky!” Steve calls, his voice swallowed by the snow. He shivers violently, still cold, and stumbles towards the doors. His heart fills with dread as he pushes them open. 

Inside there’s an old, rusted elevator that only goes down. Steve follows his gut feeling and takes it to the bottom-most level. The grate squeals as he lifts it up, and his trembling hands grip the shield as he whips around corners and pushes past doors, only to find the empty hallways full of shadows and dust. Finally, he reaches some sort of staging area, the center of which features an ominous chair. Sitting in it is Bucky, looking half-dead with metal halos clamped to his head. The red star is chipping off his metal arm. 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes in relief, and he holsters the shield, taking a step forward—only to find that Bucky has disappeared. The Chair is covered with a thick layer of dust, and on its seat sits Bucky’s metal arm, its sawed-off wires implying a much more gruesome story.

“Oh, God, Bucky,” Steve breathes, bile rising in his throat, and he closes his eyes, his vision blurring with hot tears. _ He’s dead, _ thinks Steve, _ Rumlow didn’t lie_—

Wait. Who’s Rumlow?

“Steve?”

“Buck,” says Steve, unable to keep the relief from his voice, “Where—”

Steve blinks. He’s sitting in a motel room, staring down at a thick brown folder. The sight of it fills him with grief. He braces himself as he opens its front cover, already knowing what he’ll find. 

Inside there are two photos: a sepia-toned photograph of Bucky in the same World War II uniform that he was wearing earlier, and a gruesome photo of Bucky’s body, frozen in some kind of tube. Steve can’t read the Russian on the pages, but he knows what information they contain anyway: an account of how the Soviets, and subsequently HYDRA, tortured and brainwashed Bucky into becoming an assassin called the Winter Soldier. 

Steve’s thoughts come to a stuttering halt. How did he know that? Bucky hadn’t mentioned anything about being an assassin; the closest deduction Steve made was that he was a veteran. 

“Steve?” 

Steve whirls around. Bucky is standing behind him, looking down at the folder with wide, scared eyes. 

“Where did you get that?” asks Bucky. 

Steve opens his mouth and says, “Natasha,” surprising himself. It makes sense, in a way—she’s a spy. But why would he request documentation about the Winter Soldier? And why would she give it to him? 

“Man,” says a new, exasperated voice, “tell me you didn’t spend your whole shift going over those files again.”

“I know that voice,” Steve whispers, and his head moves of its own accord, turning to the right. He gets a split-second glance at Sam Wilson, the new Captain America, sitting on one of the motel beds, donning his old Falcon superhero uniform and—

Steve is standing on a bridge, dressed in regular street clothing, but he’s still huge as if he got the supersoldier serum anyway. Sam is standing next to him, saying: “Look, whoever he used to be, the guy he is now, I don't think he's the kind you save. He's the kind you stop."

"I don't know if I can do that,” Steve responds, the conviction in his voice a reflection of the certainty sinking deep into his soul. He’ll do anything it takes to save Bucky—especially now that he has a second chance. 

_ Or a third, now, _Steve thinks in a brief moment of clarity, and then Sam is saying, “Well, he might not give you a choice. He doesn’t know you.”

“He will,” Steve says, but there’s a seed of doubt in his heart, because—

The memory hits Steve like a freight train: fighting against the Winter Soldier on a different bridge littered with wrecked modern cars; the metal arm coming at him hard, fast, invincible; the Soldier’s mask falling off and Steve’s shocked gasp: _ “Bucky?” _

_ "Who the hell is Bucky?” _

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. 

There’s a flash of—something. Horror, fear, guilt—resignation. Another bridge, in the air instead of over water, Bucky with a metal arm and a cold, focused gaze. The words tumble out of Steve’s mouth like he’s been programmed to say them: “People are gonna die, Buck. I can’t let that happen. Please don’t make me do this.”

Steve flings the shield, and Bucky—

Bucky rears back with a gasp, blocking the shield with his metal arm. The shield bounces and falls onto the metal between them, resting so the star is facing upward. “Steve?” He looks down at himself. “Are we still dreaming? What’s happening—”

Steve has a moment of terrible vertigo, and then—

There’s snow everywhere again. He and Bucky are standing on a rocky ledge, peering at a zipline stretched out over high, narrow train tracks. Bucky is wearing a World War II army uniform again, slightly different than the previous one, and his hair is a bit longer, just pushing past army regulation length. His dog tags glint from underneath a navy blue coat, and Steve knows, with a sudden flash of certainty, exactly what will be on the first two lines:

> JAMES B BARNES
> 
> 32557038 T42 -43B

_ B for Buchanan_, Steve thinks dimly, and then: _ Buchanan. Bucky. _

Between one blink and the next the scene changes: Steve’s holding onto the handrail of a train car that's been forcibly inverted and exposed to the screaming wind. He's reaching out for Bucky, shouting, "Bucky! Hold on!" 

Bucky screams and falls—and Steve doesn’t even think. He jumps off the train after Bucky, catching him mid-air and flipping them so that Bucky’s on top. Steve reaches for his shield and covers them both just before they hit the ground. 

Bucky gasps and clutches the straps of Steve’s uniform, shaking hard.

“Bucky?” Steve pants, his heart pounding in his ears. “You all right?”

“This isn’t…” Bucky rolls himself out from under the shield, staring up at the sky. He says hoarsely, “This isn’t how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

"I was alone, and..." He lifts his left arm. It’s a bloody stump, still dripping red droplets on the white snow. “I lost my arm. Until HYDRA..."

“Gave you a metal one and turned you into an assassin?” Steve hazards.

Bucky swallows hard and nods, shivering. “I want to wake up now,” he says softly, and he blindly gropes for Steve’s hand. His fingers are icy, and Steve runs his thumb over them, trying to transmit some warmth. “Steve. Can you…?”

“How?” Steve asks, frantic. “Bucky. What do I do?”

But Bucky’s gone still. His blue eyes are half-open and staring blankly up at the sky, his lips parted and blue with cold.

“No,” Steve whispers, his breath coming short and fast, “No, _ no_—” He drives his fist into the snow, shivering all over. “This is a dream,” he reminds himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sleeping in my apartment in Brooklyn, and so is Bucky, and we’re both safe and warm and—”

Steve opens his eyes with a gasp, staring up at the high ceilings of—

Wait a second. This isn’t his apartment. 

He slowly lifts himself up onto his elbows, noting that he’s back in his body. It doesn’t dissipate the alarm thrumming under his skin as he takes in the medical exam room and the holographic screens hovering above his bed. They’re displaying his vital signs, along with other pieces of medical information that he doesn’t really understand. His eyes catch on the name at the bottom of one:

> ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT

Steve lets out a small, bitter laugh. He’s still dreaming. 

That’s one question answered. Now for the others: Where the hell is he, where is Bucky, and how can they get out?

Muted voices sound outside the door. Steve quietly dismounts the bed and creeps forward, wincing a little as his joints protest. 

“—really letting him go through with this?” 

That’s Tony. 

Steve holds his breath and leans in a little closer. 

“Rogers has got one of the greatest tactical minds in the world,” says Tony. “Why can’t he just hang out here helping us plan ops?”

“He’s retired,” says Natasha evenly. 

“Yeah, but retirement from superheroing is one thing, completely erasing all your memories of it is another,” Clint argues. “Not to mention the whole, you know, false memory implantation thing. How is this any different from what the Red Room did to you, Nat?”

“Or what HYDRA did to Barnes,” Bruce adds.

“Or what Loki did to me,” Clint mutters. 

There’s a tense silence, and then Sam Wilson says, “I don’t agree with Steve’s decision. I didn’t agree with him when he decided to give up the serum, and I don’t agree with this now. I’m losing a friend. We all are. But—” Sam lets out a long exhale. “He’s been beating himself up ever since he found out Barnes was dead, and he’s never going to stop. This—this is going to help him stop.”

“It’s suicide,” Tony protests. 

“It’s what he wants to do,” says Natasha. “To quote Peggy Carter, we owe him the dignity of his choice. He’s given us everything we need, including his new backstory. Now it’s just a matter of executing his wishes.”

“Steve?”

Steve wheels around. Bucky is standing next to the bed, face drained of color. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on in the street, and his single hand is clenched into a fist. “You...you wiped yourself?” Bucky’s voice cracks. 

“No,” says Steve reflexively, even as his stomach coils with horrified guilt. “I didn’t—I don’t…” _ I don’t know what that means_, he wants to say, but the words won’t come out because in the back of his mind, he knows that’s a lie. 

The door swings open, and Steve freezes. 

“Steve, are you up?” Sam asks, brow knitted in concern. 

Steve nods, a sudden tightness in his throat. 

“Hey,” says Sam. “I’m guessing you heard all that?”

“I heard enough,” Steve answers, more harshly than he intended. 

Sam winces minutely. His voice is quiet as he asks, “You still want to go through with this?”

Steve’s heart jumps. He opens his mouth to answer “No,” or, “What do you mean?” or, perhaps, “Why didn’t you stop me?” but all that comes out is the one word he doesn’t want to say: “Yes.” And then the world tilts around him, a great wind tossing him up, down, left, right, and every direction in between until his battered body drops onto a padded bench enclosed in a metal tube. 

Steve gasps and tries to sit up, but there are soft straps anchoring him down. There’s a loud humming all around him, and he jerks his head, trying to locate its source, only to find his head is immobilized in some kind of contraption. Dread crawls up his spine as he takes in his surroundings.

Blue light illuminates the white walls of the claustrophobic tube. The color reminds Steve of—something. In his mind’s eye, he can see a glowing cube with a malevolent blue pulse. _ The Tesseract_, he realizes in alarm, as the metal on his forehead starts to vibrate. Panic seizes him. “No,” he whispers, “No, no, no—”

“Steve,” says Bucky, his voice echoing faintly as if from a great distance. “Look at me.”

Steve heaves a breath, blinking in surprise as a soft, warm hand brushes across his forehead. Bucky looks ghostly, almost translucent in this light, and his mouth curves into a shaky smile. “The only way out is through,” he says, shivering with a sudden chill. He slips his hand into Steve’s and squeezes gently. “Just hold on tight now, as hard as you can.” 

The humming in the tube has turned into a loud, high-pitched whine. It pierces Steve’s eardrums at the same time lightning shoots through his skull. Steve screams his throat raw as memories flash by him, slipping away no matter how hard he tries to cement them in his brain: 

Meeting Bucky at age ten and teaming up against bullies trying to steal Steve’s pocket money—

Countless back alley fights at different ages, Bucky’s exasperated expression softening into fondness the closer they get to home—

Riding the Cyclone on Coney Island and throwing up into a trash can, Bucky patting his back with an alternately horrified and amused expression—

Sneaking onto a train after Bucky spent all their remaining money trying to impress a girl, a hot seed of jealousy burning in Steve’s heart—

Standing alone at the funeral of Sarah Rogers (_my mother _ , thinks Steve, dazed) after she died of tuberculosis (_not cancer_), a numb fog settling over him as he realizes he’s now alone—

A crumpled draft letter for James Buchanan Barnes hidden in a drawer, and the angry shouting match that follows—

Meeting Dr. Erskine, and going through basic, and becoming Captain America—Steve’s hands, stained with the blood of his sole mentor—

An endless series of stages and shows and flashing lights, and then—

“Barnes...James...32557—” Bucky’s dressed in a frayed wool shirt and army pants, strapped to an exam table in a dank medical ward. _ Zola_, Steve thinks with a jolt of rage, _ HYDRA_, and a green, pixelated face on a dusty computer monitor flashes in the back of his mind as he rushes to Bucky’s side.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, and Bucky’s face lights up with hazy recognition—“Steve?”

“Bucky,” Steve says, pulling him off the table, “Are you—are you with me?”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He’s staring at Steve with confused horror, taking in the size of Steve’s Captain America body. “I thought you were smaller,” he says. 

“I _ am,_” says Steve desperately, “I am _ now. _Come on, we have to wake up. We have to wake up before I forget again.”

“Did it hurt?” asks Bucky; they’re running through a hallway now as metal crashes all around them in a blaze of fire. “Is it permanent?”

Steve turns to look at him, and he promptly chokes on a sob: Bucky’s face is melting away like he’s the subject of Edvard Munch’s _ The Scream, _his features distorting and bleeding down like oil paint dripping off a canvas. “Bucky!” he screams, flailing, and—

He’s sitting at a wooden table, his body still big from the serum. Dust motes catch in the pale grey sunlight filtering in from the window. Pinned on the walls are sketches of his own style: 

Peggy Carter in a red dress (_Steve remembers the bar that night, how blinded he was by her beauty and forthrightness and wit that he barely noticed the yearning on Bucky’s face_);

Natasha, Tony, Bruce, and Clint in uniform, and Thor at the side with his hammer and cape, staring up at an alien spaceship and braced to fight (_my team_, thinks Steve, a fresher grief welling up inside of him); 

Sam Wilson dressed in running gear, grinning broadly from under a tree, the Washington monument in the distance—

_“On your left,”_ _Steve repeated for the third time, and the faintest spark of hope ignited inside him as he joked with Sam at the end of the run; and then, visiting the VA, staying in Sam’s house when all hope was lost, Sam having his back, flying with him in his mission to take down HYDRA and reunite with Bucky—_

“Oh, God,” Steve whispers, tears pooling in his eyes. “I erased him too—”

“Steve?” 

Steve whirls around. Bucky is standing there, both arms intact, dressed in a formal suit from the 1940’s with his hair slicked back. The environment has changed: both of them are standing outside on the stoop of an apartment. Steve’s apartment—the one he shared with his mother.

“Bucky,” says Steve, looking up at Bucky. He’s barely able to speak past the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “It’s all right. You don’t need to apologize.” He takes Steve’s other hand, interlacing their fingers, and then glances behind him, his eyes catching on something Steve can’t see. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Steve stays close to Bucky as the colors around them leach away, giving way to pitch-black darkness accompanied by an oppressive silence. They walk, nearly weightless, toward a point of light in the distance. It grows as they approach, rending the darkness with a single, violent slash of brilliance that extends from high above their heads to well below their feet. 

Bucky pauses and turns to face Steve, fully backlit so that only his silhouette is visible. “Ready?” he asks. 

Steve nods, setting his jaw. “Ready.”

Bucky steps into the light, and Steve follows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very proud of this chapter. Please let us know what you think! Did it explain anything for you? How about that Steve and Bucky relationship?


	7. Thank you

_Never thought I’d touch the sky_  
_ How surprised am I?_  
_ Didn’t think that dreams come true  
Thank you, thank you._

_ [Wenceslas, VI: Thank you, Bob Chilcott](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIifMjJjrSE) _

**December 25, 2014**

Steve opens his eyes with a gasp.

The world around him is still dark, only the faintest hint of blue peeking in through the windows to indicate the approaching dawn. His tangled sheets slide off his shoulders as he sits up, shivering, and tries to breathe, his heart beating a rapid rhythm in his ears. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and he swipes at it absently, grimacing at the unpleasant way his shirt and pants stick to his clammy skin.

“Steve?”

Steve’s head whips up as light suddenly floods his vision. Bucky’s standing at the threshold to the living room, his bag slung over his shoulder and his arm held protectively across his chest. His stance is timid, bordering on fearful, mirroring the uncertainty on his face. 

Steve’s heart aches. “Bucky,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “I—I erased you. I erased everyone and everything.”

Bucky is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “That’s—what it looked like. In the...dream.”

“It wasn’t just a dream,” says Steve, running his hand through his hair. His fingers come away damp. “It was—a memory. A whole bunch of memories. My memories—and yours.”

Bucky swallows hard, but he doesn’t deny it. His fingers curl tight against his side, gripping so hard that his knuckles turn white. “So you…” Bucky’s voice falters. 

Steve looks up. 

“You _ were _Captain America.” Realization dawns slowly on Bucky’s face. “You were Captain America,” he repeats, sounding more certain, “but then you gave up the serum.” 

Steve nods, shutting his eyes hard. The memory forms in bits and pieces: Lying on an exam table in the Avengers Tower medical suite, Sam and Natasha holding his hands while Tony and Bruce injected him with their antidote to the supersoldier serum. The agony that followed while his bones restructured themselves, and Clint, jabbing him with a tranquilizer custom-designed to knock out a supersoldier—

“Steve!”

Steve startles and blinks, biting down on a scream. Bucky’s crouched down in front of him, leaning forward, reaching for him. His eyes are wide, like he surprised himself with his own voice. His cheeks redden as Steve meets his gaze, and he drops his hand, hastily scooting sideways to get out from the space between the couch and coffee table. 

“Bucky,” says Steve, and Bucky halts like a deer in headlights. Steve slowly curls his knees upward, freeing up space on the other end of the couch. “Come sit?” he asks. 

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. Then he cautiously perches on the end of the couch, glancing at Steve through a curtain of hair.

“Buck, I—” Steve says, his voice garbled by the hot lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry. For—for forgetting you—for _ wiping _ myself, I—and before that—not coming to find you, all those years ago. Letting you suffer for so many years while HYDRA—” The tears come hard and fast, cascading down his cheeks, and for once, instead of gritting his teeth and swallowing them down, Steve lets them fall. His chest grows tight as his breaths get shorter and shorter, and Steve thinks distantly, _ If I die from an asthma attack now, it’d only be what I deserve— _

“Steve,” says Bucky, his soft voice cutting through Steve’s panic, “Breathe.” 

Steve startles a little as Bucky’s fingers wrap around his wrist and slowly tap a rhythm into Steve’s palm: _ One. Two. Three. Four. _ A soft brush of Bucky’s thumb over Steve’s knuckles for _ Five. _

Hot, fresh tears spring to Steve’s eyes as Bucky repeats the pattern, over and over. “Just breathe, nice and slow,” Bucky whispers, his voice carrying the faintest edge of panic. “Come on, pal, you can do it.”

Steve’s breath catches at the the familiar plea. “Sorry,” he whispers, swiping at his leaking eyes as he forces himself to take deep, shuddering breaths. The single word feels woefully insufficient for everything he wishes he could apologize for, but it’s all he can think of to say. 

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand, holding it tight as Steve rides out the tidal wave of grief and guilt and horror. 

When Steve finally regains some kind of equilibrium, he slips his hand out of Bucky’s and ducks into the bathroom. He quickly blows his nose and splashes water on his face, not even taking the time to glance in the mirror before rushing back to the living room, half-afraid that Bucky’s disappeared.

Bucky’s still perched on one end of the couch. His bag is on the floor now, but his back is ramrod straight, and his posture is rigid with tension and fear. 

Steve wishes he could erase the pain etched into Bucky’s body and mind, take Bucky into his arms and envelop him with all the warmth and love he deserves. He refrains, settling for curling up on the other end of the couch, leaving his hands free and his body language open in case Bucky wants to touch him once more. “Hey, Buck,” he says. 

“Steve, I—” Bucky’s voice falters, and he takes a deep breath, letting it out on a long exhale. “I don’t remember a lot. HYDRA wiped me so many times, in the Ch-Chair”—he flushes at the slip-up, pausing to take another breath. “I know that I—I killed people. Hurt people. But I didn’t want to. All I wanted to do was—was to go home. To you.”

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, unable to keep sorrow from suffusing his tone.

Bucky gives him a small, tremulous smile. “Don’t apologize, Steve. I’m here now, and so are you. Seventy years later, with memories like Swiss cheese—our brains a reflection of our real age, unlike our bodies.” His smile turns bittersweet. “It’s our very own Christmas miracle.”

“A miracle,” Steve echoes, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. He looks at the snow blanketing the window. The world is dark and quiet, but the soft light of his lamp gives the room a golden glow, bringing out the sharp angles of Bucky’s profile. Steve has a sudden, urgent need to capture his likeness. He reaches for his phone, but then the security implications flash through his mind. Instead of turning on the camera, he shuts the entire device off. Then he asks breathlessly, “Bucky, can I—can I draw you?”

Bucky flushes, startled. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, heat rising in his cheeks, “I mean—only if it’s okay with you. I don’t have to.”

Bucky worries his lip. “You used to,” he says slowly, as if he’s working through a problem in his head, “Right? When we...we lived together. Before I became a soldier.” He furrows his brow. “You drew me a lot.”

Steve sucks in a breath as he recalls a hot, sticky summer day in Brooklyn, Bucky dressed in just an undershirt and pants, all wiry muscle and golden sunlit skin, leaning carelessly against the open window as Steve furtively sketched him from his position on the lumpy couch. Steve didn’t think he’d been so obvious in his desires—but then again, subtlety had never been Steve’s strength, and Bucky had always been observant. 

Bucky had meant more to Steve than just a friend, back then; Steve had loved him, through and through. He’d loved him all the way through the war, too, though he’d stopped drawing him, too scared to get a blue card and distracted with chasing Peggy besides. Still, even though Peggy’s voice was the last he heard, Steve’s final thought on the Valkyrie had been a hopeful prayer for his and Bucky’s reunion. 

When Steve had woken in the twenty-first century alone, displaced from time in an unfamiliar world with Bucky still dead and gone, it felt like he’d entered some unending purgatory that he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried to repent by throwing himself into his work as a superhero. 

Hell had followed a few years later, when S.H.I.E.L.D. had turned out to be HYDRA and Bucky had looked at Steve without an ounce of recognition in his eyes. Steve had thought that was the worst of it, had said his piece—and made his peace—by the time Bucky tried to beat him to death on the helicarrier. But then, a month later, a burned and scarred Rumlow had taunted, viciously, “Your precious Bucky is dead,” and spat out the coordinates of an abandoned HYDRA base in Siberia that contained the shattered remnants of a metal arm and a gruesome electric chair. Steve had searched desperately, obsessively, for the rest of Bucky’s body after that, driving himself and his friends to exhaustion, until—

“Steve. _ Steve._”

Steve jerks. Heat is prickling behind his eyes again, and he blinks hard, swallowing roughly to dispel the lingering echoes of despair. Bucky is here now, alive and safe and well, and that very fact is a gift. Steve shouldn’t waste it by dwelling on things that have already happened. 

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, Buck. I—I was just lost in my head for a moment.”

“You—” Bucky chews his lip. “You were remembering?”

Steve nods, heart twinging acutely at the fact that Bucky can still read him so well. “Yeah. It’s—it’s nothing. I’m all right now.” He shifts and reaches for his sketchbook on the coffee table, haphazardly flipping to an empty page. “How about that drawing, Buck? What do you think I should use—pastels, charcoals, or pencil?”

Bucky frowns. “You used to—with pencil?” he asks, looking uncertain. “I would buy you nice ones.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, and he can’t help the smile that stretches across his face. “You did. You’d save up and get them for me for my birthday.”

“Can you,” says Bucky, and his voice falters. 

Steve stills, meeting Bucky’s gaze. “What is it, Buck?”

Bucky looks down, nervous. “It’s just—I—I remember we were friends, before you became Captain America. I remember that I was a soldier. For you—when you were the Captain—and then for HYDRA, after the train and the...the Chair. And the dreams tonight—the memories—they were mostly yours, I think, or ones that we...we shared. I remember those. But—everything’s all scattered in my head, all the time. I want to piece it all together. Can you...can you help me?” He bites his lip. “Please?”

“Oh,” says Steve softly. “Bucky. Of course I’ll help.”

“Thank you,” says Bucky, and he lifts his eyes to meet Steve’s again. They’re awash with gratitude. 

Steve squirms and flushes at the attention. “You’re welcome. Can I do it while I draw you? Is that okay?”

Bucky nods, a small smile crossing his face as he fiddles self-consciously with his hair. The gesture is so reminiscent of Bucky in the 1930s that Steve has to suppress a snort.

“Get comfortable,” Steve says as he frees his favorite pencil from where it's trapped underneath his tablet. “I’ll tell you what I know, and you can interrupt me at any time to ask questions. Where would you like me to start?”

“From the beginning, please,” says Bucky, relaxing into the couch with a sigh, and then he frowns. “Wait. Your...your name. It’s not Stephen Roger Grant, is it? It’s Steven Grant Rogers.”

Steve’s face reddens as he recalls the fake diploma hanging in his room. He’d thought he’d been so clever when he thought of his new alias—had thought it would make the transition to his new life easier. Sam had disagreed, and so had Natasha, but he’d been so insistent that they’d thrown up their hands and given up. 

Steve’s eyes catch on his phone, sitting innocuously on the coffee table. He considers calling the Avengers, demanding that they reverse the procedure, restore all of his memories, give him his identity back. He thinks about about asking them why they didn’t stop him from doing something so selfish and stupid and cowardly. He thinks of Sam, and raw grief wells up in him. They’d been so close, and now Sam’s completely absent from Steve’s life. Steve hadn’t even noticed. 

“Steve?”

Steve clears his throat, pushing aside the issue for later. “You’re right, Buck. My real name is Steven Grant Rogers. My mother was Sarah Rogers.”

Bucky nods. 

Steve scratches out a rough outline of Bucky’s face, letting the familiar motions distract him from his own sudden bout of nerves. “You and I met when we were in the fourth grade, when Tommy Anders tried to steal my lunch money…”

The sun has started to rise by the time Steve has finished his drawing and caught Bucky up on the major highlights of their childhood. Bucky has settled into a watchful sniper’s stillness that’s softened by the loose sprawl of his limbs. Steve finishes perfecting the crinkles at the corner of Bucky’s eyes and sets his pencil down, stretching his aching limbs with a sigh. “What do you think, Buck?” he asks, holding out the sketchbook. 

Bucky carefully takes it, his mouth curving slowly into a pleased smile as he examines Steve’s rendition. “I look…” A little line appears between his brows. “Content?” he questions, as if he’s trying out the word. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice hoarse. He gets up and fills a glass of water at the sink, sipping it to help get rid of the lump that keeps forming in his throat. After a moment, he fills a second glass and brings it to Bucky, who carefully sets the sketchbook aside before wrapping his fingers around the glass. 

“Thank you, Steve,” says Bucky. 

“You’re welcome. I’m going to make some breakfast. Would you like some?”

Bucky’s shoulders go tight suddenly. “If—if you can spare it, Steve,” he mumbles, looking ashamed, “I’d—I’d like that.”

Steve’s stomach swoops with guilt. “Of course I can. You—you know you can stay here as long as you like. You’re my friend, and—” _ And more_, he wants to add, but his voice catches in his throat. “I’ll always have your back, pal. I’m with you to the end of the line.”

Bucky’s face softens. “Thank you, Steve.”

Steve fries up some eggs and plates them alongside buttered toast, then brings the food over to the coffee table that Bucky has thoughtfully cleared of any art supplies. They eat in companionable silence, watching the room fill with shades of pink and red and gold on Christmas Day. 


	8. Fanfare - Winter Bright

[Wenceslas: VII. Fanfare - Winter Bright](https://youtu.be/qF9MDPOM2i4)

**December 25, 2014**

Bucky watches the sun cast a gold tint over the snow-capped brownstones lining Steve’s street. It’s mid-afternoon on Christmas day, and the city is quieter than normal. Beyond the occasional resident shoveling their portion of the sidewalk, the only movement outside belongs to small groups of bundled-up children trekking to a nearby park, sometimes led by a bedraggled parent or two.

Steve shifts against Bucky’s chest, sighing softly in his sleep. Bucky gently brushes Steve’s hair off his forehead, then carefully adjusts his position on the couch to relieve the ache in his left shoulder, which has been pressed into the corner of the couch. 

“Buck?” Steve mumbles, catching the hem of Bucky’s shirt in between two fingers. “Where’re you going?”

“Not going anywhere, Steve,” he answers quietly. “Just getting more comfortable.”

Steve huffs a breath and presses more tightly against Bucky, drifting off again. Bucky can’t help the smile the steals across his face. 

It’s been a long morning, with Steve recounting everything he knows about his life and Bucky’s. The jagged fragments of Bucky’s memory have begun to coalesce into a mosaic that illustrates his journey from Steve Rogers’ best friend to the Winter Soldier. It’s cracked and imperfect, but it confirms what he saw in their shared dream the previous night: Bucky had loved Steve with his whole heart, and Steve had loved him back. Neither of them had ever said it outright, but that hadn’t mattered. _ I’m with you to the end of the line_, Bucky had said to Steve, in a different life. Steve reaffirmed that vow just a few hours ago, and the warmth that swelled in Bucky’s heart has yet to dissipate. 

Bucky’s memories are still mostly out of reach. He remembers the fall from the train, the snow, losing his arm, the fights with Steve on the helicarrier and the bridge, and Howard Stark, young and old—but everything in between is a blur. He’s scared to look too closely. Remembering how he killed Howard Stark and his wife—and how he _ almost _ killed Steve—is enough to make him sick. 

Steve vaguely recalled reading the Winter Soldier’s dossier, which had been given to him by the Black Widow, but he couldn’t remember the contents. “I asked them to erase anything specifically related to those files,” he explained. “It was—too much to much to think about. Especially after you—after I thought you died—” Steve cut himself off and shook his head, his gaze haunted. 

“You were in pain,” said Bucky, his gut twisting as he recalled the conversation the Avengers had in the dream. Sam Wilson—the man with the wings, the Falcon, the new Captain America, and Steve’s friend—had said: _ “He’s been beating himself up ever since he found out Barnes was dead, and he’s never going to stop.” _

“I was,” Steve responded, “but that’s no excuse. I should have—tried harder to—to find you, or your body. To get closure and then—move on if I needed. I should have been able to get back up again. But I just—gave up.”

Bucky didn’t know how to answer that, so he pulled Steve close instead, finally giving into the urge to wrap his arm around Steve’s skinny shoulders. Steve practically melted into the embrace, dampening Bucky’s borrowed shirt with tears he tried to hide. 

They’ve been cuddling for hours now. It almost feels like the past seventy years have never happened, except this apartment is far bigger and warmer than any they could have afforded, and both of them bear scars, visible and invisible, that can’t be erased. 

Bucky peers at the wrinkle on Steve’s brow, which hasn’t smoothed out even in sleep, and then moves his gaze downward to take in the familiar narrow jaw, the slightly crooked nose, the perfect cupid’s bow lips turned down into a slight frown. Steve has always borne an enormous sense of duty and responsibility, and that’s transmuted now into a massive load of guilt. Bucky wishes he knew how to take it away. 

“You did what you thought was best,” Bucky reminded Steve earlier. “You had good reason to walk away from being Captain America. You had good reason to stop looking for me.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Steve countered miserably. 

Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand. “I forgive you, Steve,” he said, and he took a deep breath, shaking a little as he asked, “Do you forgive me for what I did as the Winter Soldier?”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Of course I do, Buck. I may not know all the specifics, but—I know that wasn’t you.”

“I know,” said Bucky, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat, “but I still did it. I almost killed you. Twice. And I killed H-Howard." His breath catches on the name. "He was our friend. And there were others. Innocent people. Children, even."

Steve lifted his chin, clenching his jaw. “You didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky glanced away. “I don’t know. I don’t remember a lot, but—I think they told me that I was saving the world. I believed them. Never questioned what I was doing. Never tried to fight back.” There was a bitter taste in his mouth, a buzzing in his ears. “I—I was always _ ready to comply_.” The Russian translation echoed in his brain, and he shuddered.

“Bucky,” said Steve, “I don’t think that’s true. I think you fought back with everything you had, and that the only way they could make you comply was by torturing you and making you forget who you were. You were a good man. You _ are _ a good man.”

“So are you,” said Bucky, and Steve’s eyes turned bright with tears. Bucky wiped them away gently with his thumb as they spilled out of the corner of Steve’s sky-blue eyes.

Steve’s faith in Bucky is incredible. Bucky doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but he appreciates it anyway. 

Maybe he’ll even come to believe it one day. 

For now, though, he’ll enjoy this moment of peace: the sun shining through the windows, casting a golden halo around Steve’s head; the snow, sparkling like crystals outside; the quiet lull of a miraculous Christmas day. No matter what happens next, he’ll have this memory to keep, tucked away safely in a mind he can finally he can call his own, a soul he hasn’t quite lost, a heart that Steve has filled with joy. It’s more than Bucky could have ever imagined, and he’ll never forget it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make our day! We hope you enjoyed Steve and Bucky's reunion as much as we did.


	9. On St. Stephen's Night

_ And this poor man, who was lost in the forest,_  
_Lost in the forest so far away._  
_Now beneath my roof, he’s smiling,  
_ _Smiling on Saint Stephen’s Day._

_ [Wenceslas: VIII. On Saint Stephen's Night](https://youtu.be/AgrjnYK9RB8) _

**December 26, 2014**

Steve wakes up the day after Christmas with Bucky’s arm curled tight around his waist.

“Good morning,” Bucky whispers. 

Steve hums and nuzzles the soft material of Bucky’s borrowed T-shirt, smiling as he opens his eyes and looks up into Bucky’s blue-gray eyes. Bucky looks well-rested; the dark circles under his eyes have mostly disappeared, and there’s a healthy flush to his skin. His face looks like it’s filled out a little after a couple of square meals. Steve’s eyes trace the sharp jawline and then linger on Bucky’s plush lips, lit by a ray of sun and curved into a smile. He shivers with the urge to capture them in his own. 

Bucky seems to catch on at the same moment. His eyes drop to Steve’s lips, and then he darts a quick glance upward, asking for permission.

“Yes,” Steve breathes, “Please.”

Bucky tilts his head down and presses his lips against Steve’s, chaste and gentle.

Steve’s mouth parts on a gasp as he lets Bucky in.

It’s everything Steve could have ever hoped for, and nothing he could have ever dreamed of getting. Nearly eighty years worth of love and lust and hope, grief and loss and despair, all jumbled together into this single sunlit moment. Bucky licks along Steve’s lower lip, and Steve groans, reaching up and cupping the back of Bucky’s neck to pull him closer—

A pounding on the door breaks the moment, like a bucket of ice cold water dumped on their heads. 

“Steve? Are you in there? Come on, open up and let us know you’re not dead!”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m alive, Tony! Give me a minute!” 

“Oh. _ Oh. _ You’re naked in there, aren’t you?”

“I _ told _ you he had a date!” Clint shouts triumphantly. 

Steve flushes in embarrassment as he pulls on his clothes, hoping his neighbors will forgive him for the hoots and hollers he can hear through the door. He turns his attention back to Bucky, who’s fully dressed in a pair of borrowed sweats. He’s got his bag slung over one shoulder and his feet shoved into a pair of Steve’s old boots, which he must have dug out of the closet while Steve wasn’t looking, and he’s standing frozen between the bed and the window, glancing between the two as if he’s not sure which way he wants to flee. 

“Bucky,” says Steve, his voice cracking. “Are you leaving?”

“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispers.

“Then don’t,” Steve begs. “Please? I won’t let them do anything to you, I promise. They’re my friends.”

Bucky takes a shuddering breath, then slowly sets his bag on the floor. “Okay.”

“I’ll introduce you,” says Steve, and he holds out his hand. 

Bucky takes it. His own is clammy, and it hangs limp in Steve’s as they walk past the bathroom, sweep past the kitchen, and cross the living room. Steve’s sketch of Bucky from yesterday is still lying on the coffee table.

“Time to face the music,” Steve says quietly, taking one step in front of Bucky to shield him. “Ready?”

Bucky nods. 

Steve pulls open the door. Tony’s standing there in a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans, looking mildly annoyed, Pepper a concerned but neatly dressed presence by his side. Clint, Natasha, Bruce, and even Thor and Jane Foster are clustered behind them, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters. Taking up the rear guard in nurse’s scrubs is—

“Hey, neighbor,” says Sharon with a little wave.

“Hi, neighbor. Kate.” Steve crosses his arms across his chest. “Or should I say Sharon?”

A shocked silence falls. It would be comical if Steve’s heart weren’t racing so anxiously. “Come in,” Steve sighs, and he and Bucky move in step, pressing against the wall to make a clear path inside. 

The team takes position around the living room: Sharon and Natasha standing on either side of the large window, Tony, Pepper, and Bruce sitting on the couch, Clint lounging at the entrance to the hall, and Thor and Jane awkwardly shuffling inside and sitting down on the floor in front of the coffee table. Steve shuts the door and locks it, Bucky still a silent shadow behind him, then turns and faces his friends.

No one seems inclined to say anything for a long, tense minute.

Then, Natasha says in a voice that’s far too even, “Steve, why is there a dead assassin standing behind you?” 

“Is he really dead?” Thor inquires politely. 

“...Oh my God, you’re the guy from the highway fight in DC, aren’t you?” says Jane, a hand to her mouth as she takes in Bucky’s face. “The one that was fighting against St—uh, Captain America.”

Bucky flinches. 

Natasha frowns and tilts her head, gaze raking over Bucky. “We never found a body,” she says slowly, “only the metal arm.”

“Are you saying that Bucky Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, has been alive this whole time?” Tony interjects with a frown. 

“You’re shitting me. He’s dead, hence—” Clint gestures vaguely in Steve and Bucky’s direction. “Uh, you know, all this.”

“St—um, we thought Cap was dead too,” says Bruce with a shrug, “until we found him under the ice.”

Sharon sighs and takes a deep breath. “Steve, I’m going to need you to explain what’s going on, starting with what you remember about all of us.”

“How about we introduce ourselves first?” Pepper suggests, and she looks straight at Bucky. “I’m Pepper Potts. And you are?”

Bucky swallows and steps up to Steve’s side. “My name is Bucky Barnes,” says Bucky. “I—I used to be the Winter Soldier.”

“And I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve says, “formerly Captain America.” 

It only takes a few seconds for the room to devolve into cacophony. 

* * *

“So wait,” says Tony, swigging his third cup of coffee and setting it down decisively on the coffee table next to the sketch. “You ran into each other on the street. In the middle of a snowstorm. On Christmas Eve.” He throws his hands up. “That—that sounds like some Hallmark movie come to life.”

“I still can’t get over this...dream-sharing,” says Bruce, shaking his head. He’s half-lying on the couch, one hand over his eyes. “I understand how seeing each other would trigger some kind of deja vu or flashback, but the extent to which you recovered the memories is—unheard of, really.”

Thor shrugs, waving a hand. He’s sprawled on the floor next to the coffee table, Jane tucked up against him. “It is not impossible,” he says. “Dreams, memories, perception—they’re all part of the same thing, are they not? Some Asgardians, like my comrade Heimdall, can project their thoughts at incredible distances. My brother could manipulate…” He quiets suddenly and roughly clears his throat. “Well. You take my meaning.”

Jane pats Thor’s arm, comforting, and turns to Bruce. “I’m not a biologist, but if you consider the existence of a neurological equivalent to quantum entanglement—”

“Wait, wait,” Tony interjects, moving forward so quickly he nearly upends the coffee table, “Quantum entanglement doesn’t apply to _ human brains_—”

“Aren’t you working on something like this with JARVIS, Tony?” asks Bruce with a frown. “You were telling me the other day—”

Steve doesn’t even try to make sense of the rest of the conversation. 

“How are you doing?” he whispers to Bucky. They’re in the kitchen, supposedly making another batch of coffee. The counter makes for a convenient barrier between them and the others, giving them a modicum of privacy as they regroup from telling their story. 

Bucky exhales on a long breath. “I’m fine,” he whispers back. “I think they’re...they’re okay with everything? It seems like they’re not going to—to arrest me or throw me in prison, or try to kill me. That’s good.”

Steve nods. The group has been a lot more accepting of the situation than expected, particularly after Bucky explained how he’d been recaptured and re-wiped by HYDRA after the helicarriers fell. Anger still burns low in Steve’s gut when he thinks about how HYDRA had snatched away yet another chance for Bucky to recover his identity. 

Natasha undoubtedly still has questions, but Steve’s sure she’ll corner Bucky later. Public interrogation isn’t really her style. Sharon will probably want to talk, too. And then there’s the issue of Tony’s parents...it hadn’t come up during their discussion, but he’s sure it will at some point. Steve figures Bucky will address it when he’s ready. 

Steve, for his part, doesn’t hold any grudges toward his friends for helping him erase his memory in the first place. He wondered at first why they hadn’t stopped him, but then he remembers just how headstrong he could and still can be. Nothing would have convinced him to change his mind. 

“Is anyone hungry?” Clint says to no one in particular. “No? Just me?”

“I could do with some lunch,” says Pepper from her perch on the couch armrest. She hides a yawn behind her hand, then pulls out her cell phone. “Is everyone okay with Chinese? Jade Garden’s got a dim sum holiday special this week. Should be ready for pickup in...forty minutes.”

“I volunteer as tribute,” Clint says immediately. 

“Thank you, Katniss,” says Tony, who pauses and tilts his head. "Huh. That's a really appropriate nickname."

Clint shrugs and stands. “Whatever you say, _ Beetee_. It’ll take half an hour for me to get there, right?”

Pepper nods. “With the amount of food I ordered, it’ll be a two- or three-person job to take it back. Does anyone else want to get outside for a little while?”

“I’m up for some fresh air,” says Bruce, standing and stretching.

Tony gestures grandly. “Where you go, I go, Pep.”

Pepper smiles. “Come on then.”

Sharon clears her throat. “I’ll go and get the beers stashed in my fridge. And I’d like to get out of these scrubs, get into something more festive.” 

“Not going to report me to S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Steve asks dryly. He’s a little miffed that he ended up with Sharon as an undercover bodyguard again, but apparently it’d been his idea in the first place. 

“Actually, I work for the CIA now. This is just my side gig,” says Sharon with a small laugh. “And no, I’m not going to report you.” She studies Steve thoughtfully, then turns her gaze to Bucky. “I think I know a way to help you, though. Get you registered on the books without revealing who you really are.”

Tony makes a faux-shocked face. “Are you proposing what I think you’re proposing, Agent Carter? You’re going to create an..._alias_?”

Sharon tosses her hair back and exchanges a smirk with Natasha, then makes a zipping motion across her lips. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I too shall assist with procuring celebratory drinks,” says Thor, grunting and pushing himself into a standing position. “Jane, may I request your assistance?”

Jane smiles. “Sure, I’ll help. There’s this one beer I’ve been dying to try, actually—a special Belgian ale that I’ve been meaning to look for in stores.”

“Please don’t blow a hole through my roof with your hammer,” says Steve in a sudden bout of panic. 

Thor scoffs. “What do you take me for, a frost giant? Since there is no battle to be fought, I have no reason to wield a weapon.” He looks a little disappointed. “I will use the stairs like an ordinary Midgardian…I mean human.”

“Don’t worry,” says Jane, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself.”

“Agent Carter?” Bucky murmurs, his eyes lingering on Sharon as everyone crowds out the door. “Like Peggy?”

Steve nods. “Sharon is Peggy’s niece.” 

“Carrying on Peggy’s legacy,” says Bucky, looking thoughtful, “She was—she helped you during the S.H.I.E.L.D. incident, right?”

Steve nods. He’d told Bucky that last night.

“Where’s Peggy now?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “She’s in a care home. She’s got...well, she’s in her nineties by now. Her memory’s going. They call it Alzheimer’s Disease. Pretty common among older folks.”

Bucky’s eyes crease with sadness. “I’m sorry, Steve. I...I remember you loved her.”

“I did,” Steve admits, “but—she’s had a good life, Buck. She moved on. Got married, had kids, founded S.H.I.E.L.D….I wouldn’t take that away from her for anything in the world. The only thing I can do now is—is try to spend the time with her I’ve got left.” He swallows hard as he hears the echo of Peggy’s words in his own, and he thinks of how much time he’s missed while he’s been living as Stephen Grant. Had he told Peggy of his plan to erase his memory? He can’t recall now. Maybe that’s another encounter he asked his team to erase completely. 

“We can go see her,” says Bucky quietly. 

Steve’s eyes feel hot. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky's stance turns wary all of a sudden. The door has shut, but Natasha is still inside, and she’s approaching the counter, not even bothering to hide that she’s on her guard.

“Hey,” she says. 

Steve clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “Hey, Nat. I’m s—”

Natasha shakes her head sharply, and Steve’s mouth snaps shut. Natasha sets her cell phone on the counter and pushes it towards him. On the screen is a draft of a text to “Cappy Bird”:

> _ Christmas miracle. SRG = SGR. Rumors of my (best friend’s) death have been greatly exaggerated. _

Listed underneath is the address of the bodega next to Steve's apartment complex. 

“Do you want me to send it?” Natasha asks. 

“Yeah,” Steve answers, his voice catching. “Please.”

Natasha presses send. Steve watches the message go from “Delivered” to “Read.” 

Sam’s response comes half a second later:

> _ JFC. WTF? OMW. _

“Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck? On my way,” Steve translates for Bucky. “That was Sam. Sam Wilson.”

“He’s in Harlem with his family,” Natasha says. “I’d give it an hour, maybe less. The snow’s cleared up now and the trains are all running. It should make his commute easier.”

“You’re a good friend, Nat,” says Steve, putting every ounce of sincerity in his words even though it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

“I’m happy for you,” she says, her eyes drifting to Bucky. “Both of you. You deserve a chance to be at peace—together.” She holds Bucky’s gaze. “The Red Room modeled some of their brainwashing techniques after HYDRA’s. If you ever need some guidance…” She gives him a small, tight smile. “Well. I’ve got some experience with deprogramming and relearning who you are.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says softly. He looks overwhelmed. 

Steve walks around the counter, holding out his arms toward Natasha.

“You sure?” asks Natasha.

“Yeah,” says Steve, and when she steps into his space, he wraps his arms around her shoulders, squeezing tight. He’s still taller than her in his pre-serum body, but the difference between their heights is much smaller now, and Steve takes a moment to let his body adjust to the change. 

Natasha presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad you’re back, Steve.” 

The rest of the group files back in over the next hour: Sharon with the promised beer; Jane and Thor with a case of assorted wines, several cases of beer, including Jane’s Belgian ale, and an unlabeled, dusty bottle that Thor won’t let anyone touch; Clint, Bruce, Pepper, and Tony with heaping stacks of dim sum. Sam arrives shortly after that, panting and sweating as Natasha leads him inside. “Ran to and from the subway,” he explains as he bends down to unlace his shoes at the doorway. “I was tempted to take my wings, but I figured I shouldn’t draw attention to myself. Unlike my predecessor, I know how to go incognito.”

“What,” Steve jokes, “You don’t like making yourself a giant target for enemies to shoot at?”

Sam freezes. 

Steve clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks heating. “On your left,” he says, and he tries for a smile.

Sam lets out a choked laugh. “Shit,” he mutters, swiping a hand across his eyes as he stands. “It’s good to see you, Steve.”

Steve lets Sam pull him into a hug as he blinks back his own tears. “It’s good to see you too. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Sam swallows roughly. “Don’t apologize, man. You did what you thought was best, and I supported you through every minute.” He clears his throat, clapping Steve on the back. “You finally found him, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, and he steps back to stand by Bucky, lacing their fingers together. “Bucky, this is Sam. Sam, this is Bucky.” 

“Hey,” says Sam. “It’s good to meet you, Bucky.”

Bucky nods at him. “Thank you for being such a good friend to Steve,” he says, his voice hoarse, “especially when I...I couldn’t.”

“You’re welcome. He didn’t make it easy, let me tell you. Jumping out of planes without parachutes, dropping his shield in the river—”

“He wasn’t born with a lick of good sense,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve opens his mouth in an outraged protest. Bucky sees it and grins, then continues, “Always running headfirst into a fight like if he got there fast enough he’d have some kind of advantage.”

Sam lets out a surprised laugh. “Oh, hell yeah. You get it. You _ really _get it. This is the start of a beautiful friendship. Come on, let’s get some food. You two can tell me all about your romantic blizzard reunion while I enjoy these delicious pork buns. Natasha gave me the highlights, but I want to hear it from you.”

Warmth and laughter fill the air as Steve and his friends fill their bellies with food and drink. Steve’s heart lifts as he takes in the festive atmosphere. He slings an arm around Bucky’s waist and pulls him closer, sighing happily when Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. After years of purgatory, hell, and worse, Steve’s finally found his own little slice of heaven. He’s going to appreciate every minute with Bucky at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey with us. Please let us know what you think! 
> 
> Story masterpost: On [Tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/post/188858029463/wenceslas-author-dragongirlg-fics) and [Dreamwidth](https://capbb.dreamwidth.org/24087.html)  
Art masterpost: [On AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298517)
> 
> Say hello to the author on [Tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/) and [Dreamwidth](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/).  
Say hello to the artist on [Tumblr](https://velociraptorerin.tumblr.com/) and [Dreamwidth](https://velociraptorerin.dreamwidth.org/).

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Please don't be shy! We'd love to hear from you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art Masterpost for: Wenceslas by dragongirlG](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298517) by [dragongirlG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG), [velociraptorerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptorerin/pseuds/velociraptorerin)


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